


A Little Less Conversation

by Lissadiane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Derek is a Failwolf, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Speed Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 06:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15551400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: Derek has learned to be a good Alpha in most of the ways that count. The problem is, now that he's well-adjusted, safe, and happy, it's time to turn his attention to the one thing he's always sucked at: finding a nice, sweet Omega mate.Lucky for him, Erica and Stiles have ideas on how to make that as painless as possible.In which Derek Hale is a failwolf and somehow, ends up going speed dating.





	A Little Less Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [jflicker](https://jflicker.tumblr.com/). I asked for prompts yesterday and she sent hers in first, and she suggested "a Sterek thing where they do an on the spot fake-relationship to ward off a stalker or persistent suitor? Except subvert the usual roles and have Stiles as the one who kicks the asshole to the curb. Even big, muscular guys need protecting." And this, somehow, was the result. I'm not sure it's what you were looking for, but it was a whole lot of fun to write, so I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> My apologies to Braeden, who's character I massacred a little bit in the making of this fic. But at least, finally, I've managed to write something that I didn't have to warn for torture.

The problem with being an Alpha is that Derek isn’t very good at it. He wasn’t raised for it and certainly wasn’t expecting it.

By the time he reaches 35, he’s somewhat mastered the art of keeping his Pack safe, of selecting Betas for their temperament and their value rather than how lonely and maladjusted they are. He’s forged important relationships with neighbouring Packs and with local law enforcement. Through his blood, sweat and tears, he’s brought Beacon Hills into an era of peace and supernatural prosperity, where the monsters of the week have moved on to other territories, where the local high school population isn’t tortured by things that go bump in the night.

The problem is, despite all that, he’s still failing at one of the key roles of being an Alpha.

Mating.

It’s fucking embarrassing, is what it is. In all of the drama and tragedy he’s faced since the death of most of his family when he was in high school, Derek hasn’t had much time to work on his social skills – to meet a nice Omega and settle down with them to raise a family.

It really shouldn’t be as hard as it’s turning out to be.

He has certain expectations when it comes to others and how they react to his physical appearance. It’s not that he’s vain, or that he even particularly enjoys it, but he knows, objectively speaking, that his face is symmetrical, his cheekbones and jawline seem to be aesthetically pleasing, and his eyes are somewhat striking. He knows that his shoulders and chest are sculpted from hours spent working out, his stomach is flat, and that his ass has gotten more than his fair share of appraising looks and unasked for touches from the old ladies at the grocery store.

But when it comes to interacting with any potential mate, Derek tends to trip over his tongue, scare them off by glowering or growling or being entirely anti-social, or be simply too anxious to bother showing up for the date at all.

No one would ever think that the strong, silent, broody Alpha of the Beacon Hills Pack suffered from an inability to find a compatible mate, but there it was. On the few occasions where he did manage to stretch a relationship into more than an awkward first date, his girlfriend ended up being absolutely insane and murdering a bunch of people.

He’s a little hesitant to try now.

But a mated Alpha is a key component to a stable Pack, and Derek knows what he needs to do. He needs to find someone he can tolerate, who isn’t going to kill his Pack. He’s not looking for love – he knows he doesn’t deserve that. But someone he can tolerate? That shouldn’t be so hard to find.

And so, after failing to find a suitable partner in Beacon Hills and the surrounding area, after Erica’s suggested online dating experiment fails, and after Stiles has laughed himself into a stomach cramp, Derek’s out of ideas.

It’s Stiles who suggests speed dating.

And Derek isn’t going to do it. He’s not _desperate_. He’s just aware of the critical nature of the issue. That’s all.

“Dude,” Stiles says, looking up and beaming with a manic look in his eyes. “Derek. This is the perfect solution.” He points at the screen on his laptop and says with relish, “Alpha Omega Speed Dating at the Northeastern Seaboard Alpha Networking Convention.”

“No,” Derek says, not even looking up from his knitting. He’s not very good at it, he’s dropped at least six stitches in this row, but Erica is having her first baby in six months, and by then, he should have figured out how to knit a goddamned baby hat.

“But it’s perfect. Look. ‘An elegant affair for only the most fastidious of Alphas and Omegas of the very finest quality’. Ignoring the fact that it makes Omegas sound like bottles of wine, it’s for picky Alphas, like you!”

He’s grinning; Derek can hear it in his voice. He doesn’t even need to look over to see the way his smile lights up his eyes.

“I’m not picky,” Derek says, grunting and unknitting his last row of stitches. His needle gets tangled up with his thumb and he curses under his breath. “I just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Erica snickers. “Because you’re socially constipated,” she says. “Don’t worry, Derek. It’s part of your charm.”

“You scare everyone away with your scowls,” Stiles agrees. “That’s why this is the best. You only have to spend two minutes chatting up each Omega — not even you can fuck up in two minutes. Charm them with your –” Derek glances up as Stiles waves his hand in his general vicinity. “You know. Cheek bones. Flex a little. Whatever. You barely have to talk.”

Derek gives up on the fuzzy yellow hat and snaps the piece of yarn with an irritated twist of his wrist, freeing his thumb and scowling as the thing starts unravelling. Yellow is a shitty colour anyway.

“Not doing it,” he says.

“Please, Derek?” Erica asks, reaching over to help him untangle himself from the yarn. “It’ll make me laugh.” She pouts. “And you know I’ve been so fucking miserable lately, puking all the time and being sore and emotional.”

He shoots her a quick glare, because he _knows_ she’s manipulating him, but her eyes are wide and tragic, her lower lip trembling, and he feels his resolve weakening. She _has_ been miserable and Boyd has been away and, as her Alpha, he’s got all these _feelings_ about taking care of her.

But it’s Stiles, adding his own wide eyes and pouty mouth that causes him to give in.

“I’ll go with you,” he says. “Please?”

Stiles’ mouth has been the bane of Derek’s existence for years.

*

All he’s gotta do is survive this evening of speed dating and Derek can slink back to Beacon Hills, let Stiles tell Erica all about how hilarious it was, and move on.

Really, it’s only one night. Two minutes with each Omega. And Stiles has promised to snoop around and find out anything he can about the other Omegas who’ll be here tonight, so, on the off chance that Derek actually manages to connect with any of them, Stiles will hopefully be able to tell if they’re a crazy person who will try to murder the Pack.

What can go wrong?

The first Omega can’t be older than 18. She’s been dolled up in a gypsy dress with wild, wavy hair, too much eyeliner, and deep red lips. Her giggle sounds like metal on metal and she smells like something hard to define, something that shivers over his skin and makes him wary. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like her, and, after she tries making small talk about music and movies, she gives up. Probably thrown off by his scowl and his confused grunt when she tries to talk about the latest Shawn Mendes song.

Who the fuck is Shawn Mendes?

The second Omega is a soft, sweet guy, a little younger than Derek, who’d probably pass out the first time Derek snapped at him. He’s too nice, too soft – he probably already knows how to knit.

For a moment, as the guy introduces himself and shyly babbles about how much he loves to bake, Derek considers keeping him, if only for the knitting. He could probably knit an amazing baby hat.

But the guy has that same scent – manipulative and shivering over Derek’s skin. So he does his best not to scare him but also doesn’t go out of his way to engage, and the dude moves on, hopefully to an Alpha who won’t chew him up and spit him out.

The next is in her mid-twenties. Her hair is braided to the side, she’s got a headband with cat ears on it, her eyes are bright, and she’s wearing thick glasses. Her mouth smells like strawberries, and she’s got a spot of glitter on her nose. She sits down and starts chatting about Marvel and Batman and Aquaman and the Teen Titans and the only reason Derek knows what any of those things are is because of Stiles.

Her eyes are bright and brown like Stiles’.

Stiles would like her.

Yeah, she reminds him a lot of Stiles.

“I’m Derek,” he says abruptly, interrupting her thoughts on Beastboy. “Hi.”

She blinks at him, thrown off-guard for a moment, before her grin comes back – dimples. Just like Stiles. “Macy.”

“Are you a witch?”

She blinks again. “No?”

“Werewolf? Were anything?”

“Nope. Just human. Omega. Obviously.” Her cheeks flush; it’s pretty.

Derek nods. And keeps nodding. It goes on a little long. He reaches desperately for something to say to break the awkwardness and goes with, “Can you knit?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. I tried to learn, but I haven’t got the patience for it. Kept getting tangled up.”

Yeah, just like Stiles.

The bell chimes and she has to move on, but Derek carefully marks a check beside her name on his list, indicating interest. If she does the same, the organizers will pass on the information and maybe they can meet up later.

So far, she’s the only one he’s checked.

*

Derek is beyond startled when Stiles slides into the chair across from him. Yeah, ostensibly speaking, he knew Stiles had signed up for this ridiculous speed dating thing. But all of a sudden, he realizes that Stiles isn’t _just_ there doing some behind the scenes reconnaissance for him. He’s there meeting Alphas. Chatting with Alphas. Checking off the ones he’s interested in.

“Oh, hey,” Stiles says, grinning at him. He winks, exaggerated and flirtatious and Derek… doesn’t like it.

He looks away quickly, clearing his throat, and saying gruffly, “What are you doing.”

“Speed dating,” Stiles says brightly. “Same as you. Come here often?”

Before Derek can reply, Stiles reaches over, snatches his checklist, and scans it. “Ooh,” he says. “Macy. Nice choice, nice choice. Prefers Aquaman to The Flash, which is frankly ridiculous, but still.”

Derek just stares at him, mouth hanging open a little. He wants to grab his list back but he can’t really find the will to move. They’ve done something to Stiles – dressed him up, done his hair so it looks even more bedhead-ish than usual. Lined his eyes with eyeliner. Derek’s eyes narrow – is he wearing lip gloss? What the fuck.

“You stink,” Derek says finally, because when he breathes in, there it is again – that creepy crawly scent that makes him shiver.

Stiles was halfway through a sentence and he stops, mouth gaping for a moment, and then he snaps it shut. His cheeks flush and he looks away, scowling. “I showered,” he says, sullen. “The Alphas over there seemed to like it.”

Derek snaps his head around to look at the Alphas Stiles points to. They’re both muscley, vaguely attractive dudes with buzz cuts and tattoos on their bulging biceps. Derek’s got a tattoo, but he keeps his nice and discrete on his back, covered by his shirt.

“No,” he growls, and Stiles stares at him.

“No what?”

“We’re not here for you to find an Alpha – you already have an Alpha. I’m your Alpha.” He clears his throat because his voice has gone all rough.

“Well. Yeah,” Stiles says slowly. “But you know, I might want a mate of my own one day, right?”

“No.” Derek huffs.

Stiles just blinks at him slowly. “Sure, big guy,” he says, drawing out the syllables and looking skeptical. “Whatever you say. I doubt I’ll have much luck here, anyway. Since I stink.”

“No, it’s just.” He closes his eyes, frustrated. “You have a smell. The others have it too. Something… it’s not natural. It’s not you. You usually smell…” he trails off, looking for the words to explain it, and settles on, “Like sugar. Only better.” He shrugs awkwardly, and Stiles is still staring.

He looks away a moment later, swallowing and uncomfortable, crossing his arms over the ridiculously tight t-shirt they’ve dressed him in.

Derek can see his nipples.

It’s obscene.

He swallows hard and looks away and if he catches another Alpha ogling Stiles, he’s going to probably have to write a strongly worded letter to whoever was in charge of Omega wardrobe. After he’s done pounding the offending Alpha into the pavement, of course.

“It’s pheromones,” Stiles says, licking his lips and staring down at the table. “Supposed to attract Alphas. Not repel them.”

“You smell better without it,” Derek tells him, and the bell chimes.

*

The last Omega is a smooth operating, beautiful woman named Braeden. She’s got dark hair and bright eyes and a wicked sense of humour and, for all that she’s an Omega, Derek is instantly aware of the fact that she could probably throw him across the room without breaking a sweat.

He says, accidentally, “What’s someone like you doing here?”

She smiles at him, sharp, and says, “I could ask you the same question.”

He feels himself flush a little. “It’s my Pack’s idea of a joke,” he confesses, though he doesn’t mean to.

She laughs and it prickles along his skin. He’s drawn to her, but he doesn’t think he likes it. “I lost a bet,” she confides, leaning close. She draws one finger down his hand, scratching lightly with her fingernail. “But you just might make this worth my time.”

He swallows and says, “How?”

“Are you looking for a mate?” she asks, running her hands down his face, his neck, his shoulders and chest. “I’m not. But I wouldn’t object to a little fun.”

She licks her bottom lip and he watches her and finally figures out what it is about her that draws him in even as he feels that nervous, uncertain twist to his stomach.

She reminds him of Kate. And Jennifer. 

Derek pushes his chair back a little to put some space between them and says, “I’m not fun.”

Braeden smiles and leans over the table. “I could teach you to be fun,” she says.

And Kate had promised to teach him a bunch of things too.

Derek shoves his chair back and gets to his feet just as the bell chimes and the speed dating is, thank fuck, over.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, stilted but polite, gathering his things. She tries to skirt around the table but Derek is amazing at avoiding unwanted social contact, so he disappears into the crowd of Alphas who are also heading towards the moderators.

He turns in his check list and turns to go, stopping when he sees Stiles grinning up at one of those muscle-bound Alphas.

He bristles and swallows down a growl and thinks about sneaking up to his hotel room, but Stiles has drilled it into his brain – first the Speed Dating, then the dinner while the moderators go over the check lists, then the mixer where people get to find out if anyone they are interested in is interested in them.

So he gathers up his dignity and turns to make his way into the restaurant while everyone else is mingling. He finds his name card at a table full of other Alphas and Omegas. The idea of sitting with strangers for an entire dinner makes him queasy, so he grabs his name card and does a quick search until he finds Stiles’ card – conveniently placed beside one of those muscle bound Alphas. He does a quick switch and then takes his seat.

Stiles forced him to come here, so it’s only fair that Stiles sits with him and uses all his charms to distract anyone from making Derek talk.

While he waits for everyone else to filter into the dining room and get this miserable show over with, Derek sends Erica a quick text.

_I hope you’re laughing. This is hell._

_I know,_ she replies, with a gif of a giggling cartoon character Derek doesn’t recognize. _Stiles has been sending me updates. And pictures._

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, and while he tries to think of something, she adds, _You told him he stinks? Smooth._

He’s saved from having to answer by someone finally joining him at his table. It’s an Alpha he doesn’t know, and he’s forced into stilted smalltalk until someone else joins their table and blessedly takes over for him.

Soon enough, dinner is served, and Derek picks at his food, growing more and more concerned. Stiles hasn’t shown up yet. Last Derek saw, Stiles was chatting up that meat head in the other room. What was the point in switching name cards to sit with Stiles if Stiles is skipping dinner?

And why’s he skipping dinner at all? Stiles never turns up a chance to eat.

Unless he was skipping dinner to get to know that meat head better.

Derek’s eyes narrow and he’s halfway out of his chair, determined to storm off to find Stiles for Stiles’ own good, even if it means tearing that muscle bound meat head off of him when Stiles appears, breathless, flushed, and damp.

“Sorry,” he says, flashing a grin at their tablemates. His hair is dripping, flattened to his head. His face is scrubbed free of eyeliner and lip gloss. He’s even changed into a baggy t-shirt, a familiar plaid shirt that smells of Pack, and beat up old jeans. And best of all, he smells of Stiles -- sugar and soap and home.

Derek takes a long, slow, deep breath, and only realizes he’s leaning close and sniffing inappropriately when Stiles shoots him a quick, narrowed-eyed look.

Right. Scenting is reserved for boyfriends, girlfriends, mates, husbands, wives, etc. Love matches. Not creepily possessive Alphas who are just a little too attached to their Packmate’s scent.

Derek sits back in his chair and breathes until his nose is clear of Stiles’ scent, before scowling and turning to his salad.

He fucking hates salad.

He eats it anyway.

After dinner, Derek has promised to stay at the mixer for a least an hour. He does his best. He gets a drink of wolfsbane spiked punch, he mingles in a certain sense of the word -- moving through the crowd without making eye contact or speaking to anybody. He’s lost Stiles in the crush and finds himself subconsciously searching for him instead of looking for a compatible Omega.

The facilitators are still going through the checklists and compiling results. Everyone in the ballroom seems to be having a great time chatting, laughing, dancing.

Derek checks his phone for the time. He’s only been here fifteen minutes.

He growls, downs his punch, grabs another glass, and keeps circling the room.

He thinks he hears Stiles’ laugh and turns towards the sound, but before he can investigate, Braeden corners him, grinning sharply.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she tells him.

Derek glances around for an escape and doesn’t see one. 

“Want to dance?” she asks.

Derek shakes his head before she finishes speaking. “I don’t dance,” he tells her.

She lifts an eyebrow, flirtatious smirk on her lips. “What do you like to do for fun, then, Derek?”

“Not this.” He grimaces. Stiles had spent so long drilling it into his head that he had to try to be social at this thing. Charming. Not a dick. He takes a breath. “I like… reading. Knitting. Working out.”

She reaches out and presses her hand to his pec, purring, “I didn’t know an Alpha would get muscles like this from knitting.”

Derek freezes up. He can feel his ears burning, his muscles jumping under her hand. “That’s probably from the working out,” he says, clearing his throat. He doesn’t step back because he doesn’t want to be rude.

Braeden laughs like she thinks he was trying to be funny, throwing her head back, her long hair falling over her shoulders. She’s beautiful but not his type. She intimidates him a little and he doesn’t like it.

“We could get out of here,” she suggests, sliding her hand up to the back of his neck. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, staring at his mouth, and says, “I can think of a few things we could do to have some fun.”

Derek is totally going to turn her down. He’ll do it smoothly, confidently, and with grace. 

But the next thing he knows, she’s got him by the sleeve of his shirt, tugging him towards the door.

“Oh, _there_ you are. I’ve been looking for you all over.”

Derek blinks at Stiles as he appears suddenly, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, pressing a hand to Derek’s chest that stops him in his tracks. Braeden’s hand slips off his sleeve and he doesn’t notice, too busy noticing that he didn’t mind Stiles’ touch at all instead.

“You have?” he asks belatedly.

“Yes,” Stiles says, decisive. “You promised me a dance. Remember?”

“I did?”

Braeden slips up beside Derek, pressing all up against his side, and she says, “Aw, honey. Derek doesn’t dance. And we were just slipping away to have a bit of fun.”

Stiles doesn’t look away from Derek’s face, hand still on his chest, anchoring him and keeping him from getting swept up in Braeden’s wake. “You did,” Stiles says, worrying at his bottom lip. “But it’s okay if you’d rather not?”

Derek may be a trainwreck when it comes to social interaction, but he can see a lifeline when one is offered. He nods once, pressing his hand to Stiles’ on his chest, pinning it there, and saying to Braeden, “Sorry. I did promise.”

She lifts an eyebrow and says, “Well. A promise is a promise, I guess. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later.”

“He’ll probably be busy with me,” Stiles says, a shade too sweet to be apologetic. “Sorry.” He steps forward so they’re standing close now, sliding his hand around Derek’s waist and beaming at her. “Gotta go. This is my song.”

And he manhandles Derek towards the dance floor.

“You don’t even like this song,” Derek reminds him, and Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“Work with me,” he murmurs, slipping his hand into Derek’s and tugging him into the press of dancers. Derek follows. He’s half certain he’d follow Stiles anywhere, at this point.

That’s what got him into this speed dating mess in the first place.

Stiles dances the way he does everything. With an uncoordinated relish that has its own sort of charm. Derek, of course, wasn’t lying to Braeden when he said he didn’t dance. He stands there like an awkward lump of muscle until Stiles rolls his eyes and puts his hands on Derek’s shoulders to force him to move.

It’s an upbeat pop song and Derek hates it, but he gives in, letting Stiles’ hands guide him. It’s too loud and too frantic to do anything but give in.

And then the tempo changes as the song switches over to something softer and more romantic. The lights dim. There’s a goddamned disco ball.

And Stiles slides close and his hands are still on Derek’s shoulders, adjusting now so they’re wrapped around the back of his neck, and putting his own hands on Stiles’ hips just makes sense.

This kind of dancing is easier. It’s just swaying, moving together, and there’s absolutely no reason why Derek should be finding it hard to breathe.

“Thank you,” he says belatedly, and Stiles blinks up at him and smiles.

“I sent a picture of you and that woman to Erica and she told me that if I didn’t save you, she’d kill me. You looked pretty uncomfortable.”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “She was a little pushy.”

Stiles steps on Derek’s feet and shuffles apologetically, and for a few moments, it’s quiet -- just the squeak of shoes on linoleum and Whitney Houston on the stereo.

Derek closes his eyes and Stiles says, “So, no luck, huh?” His voice is soft and low.

“I don’t know,” Derek says, because he’s feeling pretty lucky right now. He doesn’t know how to say that without fucking everything up, though, because he knows what Stiles thinks of him, he’s always known, and he’s just as unwilling to fuck everything up as he’s always been. But he can’t help sweeping his thumbs up over Stiles’ hip bones, accidentally pushing his shirt up a bit, so his fingers brush against bare skin.

Stiles’ breath catches, just a little, but it’s enough for Derek to hear it over the music and he opens his eyes, staring down at him.

Stiles is biting his bottom lip again, and it’s so much more attractive and unpracticed than when Braeden licked hers.

“What about you?” Derek asks. “Any luck?”

A small, crooked smile tips the corners of his lips up and Stiles says, “Nah.”

“Didn’t check off anyone on the list?”

“Well,” Stiles says. “One person. But it’s not gonna be reciprocated.”

Derek frowns. “If they don’t want you, they’re crazy,” he says.

Stiles laughs. “You think I stink,” he teases. “Who’s gonna want me when I stink?”

And Derek’s the very worst kind of Alpha, but he can’t help it. He buries his face in Stiles’ throat and breathes deeply, scenting him without even thinking about it. He hears that little catch in Stiles’ breathing again, just before Stiles’ head falls back, baring his throat, and Derek rumbles against it, “You smell okay now.”

“Just okay?” Stiles asks, his grip on Derek’s shoulders tightening, his voice trembling a little.

Derek abruptly realizes what he’s doing. He’s on the dance floor, Stiles in his arms, scenting him, basically claiming him publicly in front of a room full of Alphas and Omegas. Pretty much destroying any chance Stiles has of making a match here.

His grip on Stiles’ hips tightens for a second before he makes himself let go. Stiles deserves better than this -- deserves all the chances in the world to find a good match.

So Derek steps back and clears his throat and says, “My hour’s up. I’ll see you in the morning?”

And he turns and walks away, leaving Stiles standing alone on the dance floor. 

*

Derek is just slipping out of the ball room, phone open to text Erica, when one of the facilitators calls his name.

“Derek Hale, right?” she asks cheerily, even though he’s wearing a name tag. “Here! Don’t go without this!”

She presses a manilla envelope with his name on it into his hands and then makes her way into the ball room with a box of them. Derek tucks it under his arm and makes his way to the elevator..

He’s already got a text from Erica and he frowns as he reads it.

 _You idiot_ is all it says.

*

He goes to his room and changes into his pajamas, stretching out on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. He wonders if Stiles is downstairs, chatting up a meat head, or if he and Macy are chatting about superheroes, or if maybe Stiles is in his own room, sleeping already.

Derek tucks his arm behind his head and takes a deep breath and wonders what the fuck he’s doing with his life.

Speed dating. What was he thinking.

Eventually, Derek gives up on sleeping and pulls out his knitting. He’s starting from scratch with a soft purple yarn, and he props himself up against the headboard and starts meticulously counting stitches.

He gets up to grab some water a few hours later, and on his way back to his knitting, he sees the envelope sitting there.

He thinks about throwing it out, but he might as well look first.

Derek tears the envelope open with a practised, casual flick of his wrist, like he doesn’t care if anybody finds him compatible. He pulls the sheet from the envelope and frowns down at it.

Apparently Macy hadn’t indicated she was interested in him. He’s vaguely relieved about that, but spends a long time staring at the sheet of paper before carefully setting it aside.

He goes back to knitting.

He drops seven stitches and doesn’t notice.

There’s a knock on the door some time near dawn, and Derek feels raw and uncertain as he answers it. It’s Stiles, of course, looking strung out, exhausted, and a little blurry around the edges.

“I’ve been thinking,” Stiles says, breezing by him into the room. “Maybe speed dating isn’t proper for you. Like, I thought maybe with only two minutes to make an impression, you’d make a good one, but now that I think about it, in two minutes, all you manage to do is convince people you’re this hot, scary dude with murder eyes. And we both know that’s just a mask to protect your creamy, marshmallow centre.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, but Stiles just waves a hand at him and keeps talking.

“All you managed to do in two minutes was to convince what’shername that all you wanted was a quick fuck, not, like, a lifetime commitment and babies and a white picket fence and, like. Dogs. You want dogs, right? Dogs are awesome.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, watching him warily. “Dogs are great.”

Stiles grins at him, slightly manic. “Cool. Cool cool. So like, the opposite of speed dating. Slow dating. Has anyone invented that? We should invent that.” He flops on Derek’s bed and says, “Dude, this looks like it was knitted by a blind gnome.” He starts taking out the stitches, and, even as he keeps babbling about dogs and ponies and riding off into the sunset together, he starts knitting a series of perfectly even little stitches. Last time Derek saw him knit, Stiles tied two of his fingers together and needed Scott to cut him free.

It’s like he’s been practicing knitting in secret.

“Stiles,” he says again, sounding about as lost as he feels.

Stiles looks up, finally falling silent, though he frowns, concerned.

Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he just hands him his speed dating results, and Stiles stares down at them in silence for a long moment.

“Oh,” he says faintly, finally. When he looks up, his face his mottled pink with embarrassment. “Oh, shit. Listen. It’s nothing. I just -- I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just, I… I just… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

“We’re matched because I checked you off too,” Derek reminds him quietly, and Stiles snaps his mouth shut before he manages anymore babbling and stares at him.

“You left me on the dance floor,” Stiles says finally. “If you -- why would you --””

“So I didn’t ruin your chances with Meat Head,” Derek confesses.

“I don’t want Meat Head,” Stiles tells him. “Fuck, who the hell is Meat Head? I didn’t want anybody -- I just wanted…” he trails off, shrugging miserably.

“Me,” Derek finishes for him, still feeling off balance and unsure.

Stiles looks at him, grimaces, and looks away. “Well. Yeah. But. You weren’t supposed to find out about that. I mean, I thought you knew, really. Erica says I’m shit at keeping secrets, and I’m pretty obvious when I like someone. I mean… I did try to back off, once I thought you weren’t interested, to give you space or whatever, I didn’t want to be pushy, and I know I’m kind of annoying sometimes, and I’m glad you learned to tolerate that, and to let me stay in the Pack, even though --”

Derek is a good Alpha, though he’s terrible at social interaction. But sometimes, like now, he forces himself to overcome that limitation and do something entirely reckless and entirely brave.

He slides one hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, his thumb stroking along Stiles’ jaw, and when Stiles’ babbling trails off in a soft, startled gasp, he takes that opportunity to kiss him to keep him quiet.

It’s a sweet kiss, for all that Derek would claim it’s main purpose was to shut Stiles up. What starts as a brash, brave press of lips becomes something far more careful, tentative and soft. Stiles doesn’t taste of strawberry lip gloss, but he tastes of something better, and Derek chases that taste into his mouth with his tongue.

“I am,” he says roughly against Stiles’ lips, when he finally has to pause to breathe. Stiles is panting against his mouth, eyes dark. “Interested.”

Stiles blinks at him and smiles, a shaky, unsure smile. “In me?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, because he finds that the right words are easy enough to find when Stiles is the one he’s saying them to. “In you.”

“Good. That’s -- yeah, that’s good,” Stiles says, cheeks flushing prettily. 

“Yeah?” Derek smirks, unable to help feeling smug at how wide Stiles’ eyes are blown, how red his lips are, the faint marks Derek’s beard has left on his face. Stiles looks a mess already, and Derek wants to mess him up even more.

Stiles laughs, letting his head fall back, and he says, “Jesus, Derek, look at you. One kiss, and you’re already so cocky.”

Derek presses his face to Stiles’ throat and breathes him in because he thinks, maybe, he’s allowed to do that now. He presses a kiss to Stiles’ pulse and then follows it with a little nip, grinning when Stiles’ laughter dies with a soft, strangled sound.

“Speed dating was a good idea,” he says, biting at the spot where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder.

“I think you’ll find, if you really think about it, that this wasn’t really speed dating,” Stiles says breathily. “It took twelve years.”

“Worth it,” Derek says, shifting up to kiss him again. Stiles mumbles his agreement into Derek’s mouth, hands clutching at his shoulders.

Erica was never going to let them live this down.


End file.
